Shall I be a mother? This week: Here we go again

Getting straight back on the IVF horse after failure, I quickly realise, is not going to be that easy. The morning after the traumatic night before, I find myself standing on Chelsea Bridge staring at the Lister Hospital and I am shaking. This takes me completely by surprise as I always thought that I was a reasonably rational person, sane and sanguine in the face of difficulty.

But apparently not. Standing here, looking at the red brick building, I swear I would sooner run stark naked around Aintree than walk back into that Assisted Conception Unit and talk about babies.

I'm crying again and I'm furious with myself for being so pathetic. Come on, I mutter, get on with it. I remember reading somewhere that if you dig your fingernails into the palms of your hands, it helps you control your emotions. So I dig deep, inhale and cross the wretched bridge.

Sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by expectant faces and tense, earnest husbands making use of the tea- and coffee-making facilities, I feel like letting them in on the secret that IVF doesn't work. Save your energy, I want to rant, it's not the answer to all your prayers. But, fortunately, before I can open my mouth, my name is called and I slope off down the corridor to Dr Parikh's office.

"Oh," she says, as I walk through the door. "I am very sad. I had hoped not to see you again for a while. Four of my ladies in your group are already pregnant."

"Oh," I smile, sitting down. "Just me then?"

"Sorry?"

"Am I the only one not to manage it?" I ask.

"No," she smiles. "There are others." How many, she doesn't say. But I suspect it is only a few, as the Lister has a high success rate. It is certainly one of the top five in the country and is constantly producing babies. But just not with me.

"So what went wrong?" I ask.

Dr Parikh inhales. For starters, my embryos were apparently rubbish (my words, not hers). Although she has had a few pregnancies from two- and three-celled embryos, she would have preferred me to have had at least one four-celled embryo when it came to transferring it into the womb.

"Well, why did we put them in?" I ask, quite sharply.

"Because we didn't have any other choice," she replies.

She has a point. Less Attractive and I had managed to produce only two fertilised embryos out of six eggs, owing to our apparent lack of compatibility. I suggested at the time that it's because he is from Birmingham that my refined eggs have no interest in his dodgy Bull Ring sperm.

But Dr Parikh has a solution. IntraCytoplasmic Sperm Injection - or ICSI - a revolutionary technique that involves taking hold of the sperm, cutting off its tail (there is no DNA stored in the tail, it is only there to enable the sperm to swim) and injecting it into the egg.

Current research states that there is no increased risk of congenital abnormalities in the children conceived through ICSI, but doctors do advise that they have regular developmental assessments. However, with ICSI there is a much higher fertilisation rate and therefore a better choice of embryos at the end. It seems like the perfect idea.

She also has other changes to make. She wants me to take more Gonal F - the drug that stimulates the ovaries into producing more eggs, so that we have more choice. She also wants me to take more of those dreadful flatulence-inducing Progesterone pessaries so that the womb lining is thicker and more alluring for the embryos after transfer.

"And we'll take it from there," she smiles. "Do you want to start right away?"

"Well, I don't see why not," I say, feeling emboldened and a bit more optimistic. My situation is not totally hopeless. It seems that there are ways round my problems. Science, thankfully, has solutions where nature has clearly given up the ghost. "What do I do now?"

"Well, I'll put you straight back on to the pill for three weeks and we'll book you in for ICSI."

"Great," I say, rubbing my hands. "Here we go again."

"Here we go again," she smiles.

"But you should give yourself a bit of a break," she says. "You know, relax. Have a glass of wine."

"A glass of wine?" My mouth is watering.

"Oh, yes," she smiles.

"You should certainly allow yourself a glass or two. Nothing excessive," she adds.

I'm afraid I don't hear the last bit. Two days later, I am propping up the bar of the Electric House on Portobello Road, drinking Cosmopolitan cocktails as if they are going out of fashion (which, of course, they are).

They are not wine and I am not being abstemious, but I really don't care. It is a relief to join the human race again and, for one night only, not to have to think about trying to make babies.